


stars lay overhead (you're everywhere)

by feathered (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, M/M, PWP, humor me, i don't know a single thing abt drug trips oops, teensy lil bit of fluff if u squint n tilt ur head 45 degrees 2 the left
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/feathered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis’ kissed plenty of people before – many more than he would care to admit – but it’s never felt like this. It’s never made his hands clench, knuckles white; toes curling like someone spilled gasoline inside his body and threw a match down his throat. Maybe it’s the lingering high; maybe his head is still drifting in that place where the stars flash neon. Or maybe it’s just Harry. </p>
<p>aka harry and louis meet at a rave and they fuck in the woods (◡‿◡✿)</p>
            </blockquote>





	stars lay overhead (you're everywhere)

**Author's Note:**

> hi lil bunnies i wrote this last year so it was originally bottom!harry..... [shudders violently] but i edited it 2 be bottom!louis so all is well ! hope u like and hmu on tumblr at louisinpanties woOOo 
> 
> the title is from suspension by lights

The stars look different up close.

They’re all neon colors, pinks and oranges and yellows, fluorescent and flashing like strobes.

There’s a throbbing bass and it echoes from everywhere and nowhere, fading in and out as it reverbs off empty space. The stars are moving in time with the sound, helixing through ink and leaving translucent streaks in their wake.

Louis could touch the stars because they’re dazzling and within his reach but he’s numb. Or maybe his body is just gone – he doesn’t really know. His eyes won’t focus, everything is swirling colors and sparkling and diamonds.

A field of stars is a nice place to float.

Except two of the stars are hanging in suspended animation, huge and clear green and just staring at him like a pair of eyes.

Emerald eyes. Flecks of gold.

A silhouette is cut out of the black and they are eyes. Who else is floating?

A boy with green eyes.

Does he know a boy with green eyes?

A boy with blue eyes and smooth china skin.

He’s a constellation. A constellation with hands and arms that reach for Louis’ non-body and unblinking eyes, deep and hypnotic. Then suddenly there’s a mouth too and it smiles a supernova of hot white.

Blinding.

And Louis is falling, neon sucked into a vacuum and a rush of black air.

Freefall.

Crash to earth.

He sprawls out starfish-like, sweat wrapping around him like a moist blanket and he chokes on his own spit when he tries to breathe. Maybe he’s underwater, he thinks, because there are figures swimming in the thick air above him and everything is rippling. Except there’s grass scratching against his back. He doesn’t think grass grows at the bottom of the ocean.

The stars are still there but they’re so far away now. He still wishes he could touch them.

Louis tries to reach his arm up because he can feel it now but it’s a lead block, staying dead at this side. Same with his legs and head and torso and his entire body, essentially.

What the fuck happened?

Is he dead? Is this what dying feels like?

He liked it better when he was floating.

But then green-eyed porcelain boy is there, hovering, his mouth opening and closing and he’s saying words but Louis’ ears are ringing. There’s a large, smooth hand on his bare chest, pressing down, little combustion reactions but he shivers anyway. He lets himself get swallowed up by the licking flames that accompany that touch and it’s delicious, delicious, delicious…

And then water is running down the bones in his face and it’s cold like liquid nitrogen. Louis coughs and sputters but the pieces of his vision start to merge back into one. That same delicate hand is curling gently around the nape of his neck, pulling his head up and lifting something to his already parted lips.

Liquid nitrogen slides down his esophagus.

It’s invigorating and Louis’ eyes snap into focus and he can see.

Green-Eyes kneels over him, beads of sweat drip from matted chocolate curls and one lands at the corner of Louis’ lips. He swipes his dry tongue across it, warm and salty and he kind of wants to lick every inch of moist skin, milky soft. His tongue flicks the air.

There’s another figure looming over him, staring. He’s tall and fuzzy-headed and his eyes are a deep cocoa brown, and he’s pretty, but not as pretty as Green-Eyes. Louis likes Green-Eyes better. He has soft hands and a halo of shimmering light surrounds his form.

And then he’s singing. Or speaking. Louis thinks it might be both – he doesn’t know, his ears are still ringing. But it’s a beautiful sound anyway, deep and syrup-slow and Louis wants to wrap himself up in it and go to sleep for a long time.

“You a first-timer?”

It’s directed at him but Louis’ trying to figure out what he means and his mouth is too dry to form words. His lips open and close like a fish on land, struggling to find water where there is none. Green-Eyes looks up at Brown-Eyes and says something but it’s muffled. Then his voice is floating past Louis’ eardrums again.

“Mate, you can’t trip without water. Dehydration’s a bitch.”

_Trip trip trip._ Louis’ brain crashes around in his skull, trying to remember. Like a drug trip? But where is he? Then he remembers the heavy bass pulsing through the air and the damp grass and the cool breeze and the crowds of bare skin and all the colors and he’s at some kind of rave, he thinks. There was a skinny boy, inked skin and bumblebee hair, handing out glowsticks and little white tablets. Louis remembers the feel of them cradled against his palm – he swallowed them dry and shot up to the stars.

He came with someone. He closes his eyes and sees blonde hair, pale skin, a voice unlike his own.

“Where’s Niall?” Louis manages to choke out.

Except his mouth is cottony so it sounds more like, “Whffs Null?”

“What’d he say?” Brown-Eyes’ voice is smooth and elegant-sounding, classy.

“Fuck if I know,” and the word is perfect, curling off the tip of his tongue, and Louis’ stomach plummets. “Here, help me get him up.”

A strong arm hooks under his right shoulder and another under his left, and two hands on his back push him to a sitting postion. Two hands, so vastly different from each other – both large, but one sort of uncomfortably rough, the other smooth and branding a palm into his bare flesh. He wants Green-Eyes to touch him everywhere.

They somehow manage to drag him so he’s standing and he’s leaning entirely on Green-Eyes because his legs are Jell-O and vertigo threatens.

Louis’ vision is still fuzzy but he can clearly see the glowing colors that paint the other boy’s torso in swirls of fluorescence, blurring with ink lines already etched into skin. His chest is really lovely, Louis decides. It’s flat and defined and Louis wants to smooth the pads of his thumbs over it and then maybe his tongue too. And he’s at least a head taller, like he could fold himself around Louis’ entire body. He’s kind of perfect.

Brown-Eyes drops his arm.

Does Green-Eyes have a name?

He would ask if his tongue didn’t feel like sandpaper.

“Hey Li, do me a favor and go find that blonde kid, tell him I’ve got his friend. Don’t want anyone thinking someone’s died.”

Brown-Eyes – Li? – gives a slight nod and says, “What’re you going to do with him?”

He’s pointing at Louis and he really wishes his mouth would form words because they’re talking over him and it’s uncomfortable.

“I’m going to take this one,” he taps a thin finger on the sharp of Louis’ collarbone, “somewhere nice and quiet. He needs to sleep it off. Now go find blondie, if you would.”

And then Brown-Eyes is jogging away until he’s swallowed up by a mass of writhing bodies.  

-

Louis wakes up to silence like velvet and a pair of green eyes blinking down at him. He feels like he swallowed the Sahara Desert. He coughs and sputters and suddenly a water bottle appears in front of his face, presented by a familiar hand, lithe and elegant strength. Louis snatches it and drains the entire container in less than five seconds, although only about 50% of the icy liquid makes it down his bone-dry esophagus, the rest drenches his jaw, neck, and shoulders. He finishes, swipes the back of his hand across his lips, tossing the plastic aside and staring up at Green-Eyes. He’s laughing at him. Louis knits his eyebrows half in confusion, half in aggravation.

“Yeah, definitely your first time.” His laughter fades to a quiet chuckle and Louis ignores it.

“Have’ya got a name?” Louis’ voice is still scritch-scratchy but at least he can get words out now. He’s counting his blessings.

“I do, now that you mention it. I’m Harry.” So Green-Eyes equals Harry. A pretty name, he likes it.

“I’m Louis. What happened?” He asks because he wants to know and also because Harry seems to find the entire situation quite amusing.

“I’m not aware of all the sordid details, I’m afraid. Saw you lying there and you’re much too pretty to get trampled, so I figured I’d jump in and save your arse,” he grins and his teeth are so _so_ white. “You owe me for that, by the way, I’m not kidding about the trampling bit.”

Louis has an idea of how he might repudiate his debt and it has everything to do with the way Harry’s lying, back to a thick tree trunk, long limbs sprawled boneless across the ground. His hair is disheveled and his eyes glitter and his skin is a tantalizing blend of opal, sweat, streaks of neon paint across obsidian sketches. And his tummy is _right there_ , pillowy and inviting and Louis still wants to get his mouth all over it. So he doesn’t think, bows his head slowly, so slowly.

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the swell of soft flesh, salt on his tongue. There’s a sharp contraction of muscles and a sudden intake of breath and he wants to devour him, all velvety skin, hot and delicious.

But not just yet. Louis really hopes there aren’t any lines drawn here but there might be, so he pauses and lifts his lips a fraction of an inch, peering up at Harry through hooded eyes, gauging his reaction. His head is thrown back against the bark, eyes squeezed shut and breathing hard out of his nose and Louis’ barely even _touched_ him yet. But _god_ , he really wants to; he’s so beautiful it’s illusory and Louis just wants to tear into his skin.

Needs it.

Craves it.

So he reads Harry’s body language as an invitation and stretches his neck out to lick a flat stripe along the smooth curve of his collarbone, sucking a bruise into the dip between them. A strangled sound claws its way up from the back of his throat and Louis attaches his lips to that spot, teeth scraping against tracheal ridges.

Suddenly Harry’s fingers are knotted in Louis’ sweaty fringe and he’s yanking his body so that he’s spread across Harry’s lap. It’s an easy motion because Louis’ all too willing and he’s already utterly boneless anyway. Harry digs blunt fingernails into his scalp and lips crash together.

Cataclysmic – a tidal wave drowns both of them and Harry tastes like a million different things at once.

Louis’ kissed plenty of people before – many more than he would care to admit – but it’s never felt like this. It’s never made his hands clench, knuckles white; toes curling like someone spilled gasoline inside his body and threw a match down his throat. Maybe it’s the lingering high; maybe his head is still drifting in that place where the stars flash neon. Or maybe it’s just Harry. Either way, Louis thinks every kiss from now on is going to pale in comparison to this.

He pries Harry’s lips open and their tongues slide together like completing a circuit – electrical current surging through and hot, needy breaths huffed into each other’s mouths. One hand remains tangled in his hair and the other clutches at the base of his neck, and then his head is being tilted forcefully back so Harry can lick deep into his mouth, rough tongue curling against the back of his throat.

The night air is warm and sticky and sweat pools between their bare torsos, pressed flush against each other. Harry trails a long finger along the planes of Louis’ chest, following a bead of sweat as it trickles down toward the waistband of his trousers.

Abdominal muscles flutter.

Harry tucks the tips of his fingers under the elastic, stroking lightly across the hot skin there and Louis presses his body impossibly closer. He feels Harry’s hands slip around the narrow jut of hips, gripping at Louis’ lower back, pressing into dimples just above the curved swell of his ass.

“Such a fucking tease,” Louis hisses, sharp words exhaled into his mouth.

He huffs a dry laugh against Louis’ lips and then sinks his teeth into the flushed skin under Louis’ jaw, rolling his hips sharply. Louis can do nothing but choke out a broken sob and claw into heated flesh, almost drawing blood but neither of them notices or cares.

Harry sucks a row of mottled purple splotches down the curve of Louis’ neck, smoothing his tongue over each spot, and continues grinding his hips upward, contact like a rush of blood to the head and Louis thinks he’s higher than before. Harry’s fingertips flutter against the skin just above Louis’ ass, and he wants to grab Harry’s wrists and just _put_ them there – _god,_ he wants those big hands to _squeeze._ He shivers against Harry, despite the sticky heat draped heavily over them.

“What do you need, princess?” Harry huffs, gentle and gravelly, and Louis almost crumbles because _princess_. Fucking _princess_.

He’s going to die. He’s surely going to die.

“Touch…please…your hands…fuck… _please_ …”

Louis doesn’t quite know how he’s supposed to ask Harry to squeeze his ass and his words come out an incoherent mush. Harry seems to understand though, because he immediately slides his hands over the bow of Louis’ ass, kneading fingers into bare skin. His eyes flutter closed and he shudders like he likes what he feels. Louis whines and pushes his ass back against Harry’s palms, and his hands spread out to cup each cheek perfectly, like they were made to do it. Puzzles pieces fitting seamlessly together. He’s hard enough that he could easily shatter into one million pieces.

There are too many layers of fabric in between them and Louis’ frustrated because the just wants to _feel_ him, all of him. No inhibitions, just skin on skin, gold and pearl melting into one. So Louis tears at Harry’s zipper until he gets the hint and rolls off him, shimmying denim and cotton down his thighs. He looks on as he shucks his own trousers, heartbeat throbbing in his skull because Harry is so fucking _radiant._ There’s a full moon hanging low in the sky and its pale, milky light filters through gaps in the trees, reflecting off Harry’s skin, illuminating him in a shimmering glow.

His body is plated in silver.

He’s beautiful. He’s so fucking beautiful and Louis’ skin is sizzling with want so tangible he could slice into it. Harry is – Louis hesitates to say “Adonis-like” because it’s disgustingly cliché but he _is._ And he’s eyeing Louis now, clear green swallowed almost entirely by his pupils, blown wide with lust, burning obsidian.

They lunge for each other simultaneously, colliding like a fusion reaction and landing in a tangled mess of sweaty limbs, bruising kisses ripped from greedy, swollen lips. Their bodies are flush now, a slick slide of heated flesh and bone and sinew, heady and thick. Paint is melting off Harry’s chest and trickling onto Louis’, staining tanned skin. Louis is positively delirious with the feel of it all – their foreheads leaning together, heavy exhales mingling, little hands carding roughly through damp curls and the hot press of his bare cock against sinewy thigh muscle.

“Harry, please, I need-“his voice is raw, ripping at his esophagus and he’s rutting against Harry’s upper leg but it’s _not enough_. “Just, god – just fucking touch me.”

The little points of Harry’s teeth poke into his ribs as a grin spreads on his lips, and he feels warm fingertips dragging up his thighs, thumbs smoothing over prominent hipbones. And his mouth is moving south and fog is swirling inside Louis’ brain. Harry’s nose nudges skin framed by the sharp V of his hips and his tongue darts out quickly, little kitten licks.

A low hiss escapes Louis’ already parted lips and his hips jerk roughly upward, a smear of precome painted across the flushed apple of his cheek. Harry rolls back on his haunches, eyes glazing, letting it drip down the contours of his face and Louis gulps audibly. He succumbs to a sudden violent shudder as wavelengths of raw desire diffuse across his skin, into his veins, searing through. He doesn’t know why it hits him so hard then but it _does_ , and he wants to make a mess of those delicate features, carved cheekbones and rosy lips and pretty eyelashes, wants to cover that velvet skin in milky translucence. Then he wants to lick it all clean.

But there are lines here, right? Do lines even exist when he’s about to get fucked by a stranger in the middle of the woods? Louis’ thoughts are too muddled and the arousal too thick to really think about that. And when hot breath ghosts over the tip of his cock he _really_ can’t think about anything else. His mind is wiped clean of everything except the perfect pink mouth that would look inordinately pretty sucking him off, like right fucking _now_.

“ _Jesus_ …Harry, if you don’t fucking put your mouth on me I’m going to rip your dick off and feed it to whatever savage beasts frolic around in this goddamn forest. Not a joke.”

“Threatening me, are we?” But he dips his tongue right into Louis’ slit and Louis has to bite back a flat-out scream as tremors wrack his entire body. Harry speaks again, even as he’s got his lips wrapped around the head, suckling no-so-lightly, and like, _how_? “I doubt savage beasts are going to be doing any frolicking. And besides, ripping my dick off would do you a major disservice.” How the fuck is he so eloquent? He’s sucking cock like he’s been doing it since he was three years old and he still manages to speak in fucking prose. It doesn’t compute in Louis’ brain. But.

 “Keep talking,” Louis groans, shivering all over because Harry’s vocal cords are vibrating around the sensitive skin of his cock until wildfire is scorching through every single nerve.

So he does, all traces of articulacy suddenly vanished, staccato sentences punctuated with a bob of his pretty curly head, swirling tongue and slick heat.

“Gonna fuck you, princess.”

_Bob._

“Right here.”

_Bob_.

“On the ground.”

_Bob._

“ _Into_ the ground.”

_Bob._

“Oh god, oh _fuck_ ,” Louis’ words tumble from his lips and Harry sinks all the way down, throat muscles contracting, eyelashes fluttering against the slight swell of his stomach. Louis digs his nails into grass and dirt to keep himself from snapping his hips towards Harry’s face because he doesn’t want to come like this. Especially not when Harry’s perfect hands are slipping along the curve of his ass, index finger pressing flat over his dry hole. Louis lets out a choked sound and he needs those fingers inside him before he physically explodes or bursts into flames or supernovas or something equally excruciating and dramatic.

But instead, Harry pulls his hands away and his mouth slides off Louis’ still painfully hard cock and Louis utters a pathetic little whine because _why is he leaving?_ He’s sweating and his skin is starting to melt off his bones but he wants the heady body heat back. Harry shuffles across the grass on his knees until he reaches his discarded jeans, crumpled in a heap a few meters away, and starts rummaging through one of the pockets. The wires connect inside his brain then and _oh, right_. Soon enough Harry returns with a foil package and a little bottle and glistening fingers.

Louis chuckles roughly. “Do you always carry that with you? Seems a bit presumptuous.”

“Well it’s coming in handy now, is it not?”

Any response Louis might have had dies on his lips when he feels a warm, wet fingertip dragging along his rim, pressing gently inside. His brain swirls a litany of _fuckfuckfuckfuck_ because he’s so tight and Harry’s fingers are so perfect.

“More, please, god _please_ ,” he begs, shameless now, and Harry wordlessly obliges, slipping a second finger alongside the first. Their lips mold together in something that’s not quite a kiss, more like Harry holding them open, tongue dragging hotly along the roof of Louis’ mouth, licking gums and enamel. Another finger – one, two, three slick digits spreading him wide, wider, but not widest. Not yet.

Blunt fingernails nudge against _just_ the right spot and Louis lets out a hoarse cry that sounds decibels louder, ringing through the still air, ink speckling across his vision. Harry presses his free hand into the slick concavity of Louis’ back, bodies aligned as he fucks himself downward, grass stains painting the underside of his thighs but he has zero fucks left to give. Well, except to Harry.

Louis almost coughs out a laugh at his own wittiness when he feels hot breath ghosting along the shell of his ear and his heart stutters painfully.

“So fucking gorgeous like this,” Harry rasps, pushing his fingers deeper. “Bet I could make you come right now, just my fingers inside you. Bet you don’t even need my cock.”

He’s right. Louis’ so fucking close already, bare toes lined up at the edge, staring down at the drop-off, about two seconds from flinging himself over. But that’s not how he wants it.

“No, need it. _God_ , need it,” and he does. He’s eyeing it, flushed and thick and leaking, resting curved against the jut of his belly, and he’s almost tearing up with how desperately he wants it to fill him up, split him right down the middle. “Swear to god just- Jesus Christ Harry just _fuck me_.”

Harry tuts and shakes his head in a mock condescending gesture, smirking. “Pushy, pushy.”

But there’s desperation in his voice too and Louis latches on to it, diving forward to sink his teeth into the supple flesh at the right angle of his neck and shoulder. Harry’s eyes slip closed and his head tilts back, vocal cords vibrating with Louis’ name.

He drags his fingers away and Louis barely has time to whine at the sudden emptiness before Harry’s cock is pressing against his hole, slick and stretched and _cravingcravingcraving._ That alone is enough to have him shuddering and squirming and keening high in his throat and Harry spreads a palm flat against his hip, steadying him, smearing liquid neon as it trickles down bone.

Louis holds his breath as Harry moves excruciatingly slow, sinking down inch by fucking inch, carefully as if Louis’ made of blown glass. It’s a pain like nothing else and he’s dizzy with it, but everything is _HarryHarryHarry_ and the feel of him pressing inside and sub dermal atomic blasts. His eyes are clenched tightly closed, eyelashes glued to the sweat on his cheekbones, trying to find a balance between the sharp stretch and the sweet hurricane raging through veins and arteries. But the scale is rocking violently, threatening to sever from its fulcrum. Harry moans loud and long as his hips rest flush against Louis’ bum, fully sheathed now, and it sounds like the Hallelujah Chorus. He has to open his eyes then, because Harry’s damp fringe is tickling the skin above his eyebrows and he’s pressing soft, closed-mouthed kisses to pillowy lips, a stark contrast to the cock rammed up his arse.

His own vulgarity is amusing, he thinks, and then his vision come careening back.

It’s a suckerpunch to the gut and his retinas are burning from the intensity of those eyes; all traces of green vanished, now the charcoal black color of a cooled lava flow.

“Hi,” Harry whispers, hot, sweet-smelling breath exhaled down Louis’ own throat, filling his lungs. Louis barely manages to choke out a coherent response because he’s trying to do too many things at once – trying to adjust to the burning stretch, trying to push Harry _deeperdeeperdeeper_ , trying to quell his rabbit heartbeat and rattling inhalations. He’s not even close to succeeding on that last one.

Finally the burning ebbs away, segueing into shockwaves of raw pleasure zinging up and down his spine. Harry’s hands find their way to his ass, fingernails digging half-moons into soft flesh and he watches as Harry’s head dips back, mouth wide, a moan that vibrates through his body and straight into Louis’. He shifts his hips minutely, a sharp gasp at the feel of Harry’s cock nudging against his walls.

“Shit Louis,” Harry rasps, lips at his ear, “such a tight little hole – feels so good – _fuck_ , can I…?”

“God, yes, _please_.”

There’s an audible sigh of relief and Harry grips Louis’ thin ankles, pushing his legs back over his head so that he’s folded completely in half and Louis makes a breathy little gasp because he didn’t know his body could _do_ that. Harry carefully draws back, only to snap his hips forward harder than Louis’ ever felt before. His head scrapes against the tree bark, back arching into an almost C-shaped curve and he would scream if all the breath hadn’t been knocked from his lungs.

“ _Jesus_ Harry, no- no need to take it slow or anything.” Louis’ attempted sarcasm is trembling, his skin tingling, cock sliding wetly along the planes of Harry’s stomach.

“Please babe, you know that’s not how you want it,” Harry chuckles darkly, a sound that matches the black bloom of his pupils. He continues to thrust into Louis roughly, searching for the spot that will elicit the most delicious of moans. There are lips at his ear again, and a low, hoarse whisper. _“You want me to fuck your pretty little hole hard, so hard it’s red and slick and swollen and_ ruined. _You want to be able to feel me tomorrow, next week, next_ year _. You want me to_ wreck _you.”_

Louis’ hand retracts on its own accord and he’s barely got a grip on his cock when slender fingers are curling around the bend of his wrist, pinning it back against tree bark.

“Uh-uh, no touching,” Harry hisses and it’s almost rendered inaudible by labored breaths and the wet slap of skin on skin and a faint knocking of hipbones. “You’re gonna come like this, yeah? Just my cock, nothing else.” Sharp thrusts serve as a bassline to his words and the arch in Louis’ back becomes incrementally more pronounced; he nods furiously because it’s all he can do, completely pliant under Harry’s warm body.  

Louis angles his gaze down to where their bodies connect, to where Harry is slamming roughly into him; his muscles are tensing and there’s a thin sheen of sweat coating his skin and his breath is coming in pants and it’s the most beautifully primal thing Louis’ ever experienced. Harry peppers his collarbones with bruises and bitemarks and all of a sudden the angle is _just so_ -

“Jesus fuck- Harry- _fuck_ ,” Louis grinds his teeth and knocks his head back against the tree but nothing matters except Harry’s body and Harry’s hands and Harry’s mouth and Harry’s cock hitting him just right again and again and _Harry_. He’s a red giant sun and Louis’ Mercury, entirely enveloped by his heated presence, obliterated.

He can feel the pressure in his cock increasing exponentially with each snap of Harry’s hips and he doesn’t want this to end but he’s actually on the verge of death at this point.

“Harry, I- m’gonna-“ he can hardly choke out words and his eyes keep rolling back in his head.

Harry slides his hands down the smooth of Louis’ arms and captures his lips in a filthy kiss, all tongue and teeth and hot, moist breath.

“Go on princess, come.”

And Louis does. _God,_ he does. He feels himself clench around Harry and it’s like being in a wind tunnel, all traces of flesh stripped from bone. His eyes flutter closed and a spectrum of colors he’s never seen before flash iridescent, shooting him back to those same neon stars. This is better than that, infinitely better. Hands secure a viselike grip on Harry’s little ass, pulling him deeper, closer, wanting to feel this, feel _him_ , forever. He wants this moment put on indefinite loop. Harry fucks him straight through it, clutching at his waist and a mess of words whispered into his mouth. He can’t make out most of it because there’s a tsunami roaring across his eardrums but he thinks he hears _beautiful_ more than a few times.

He finally comes down and it feels like he’s been in outer space for ten years; the muscles in his arms and legs are completely deteriorated and he’s inordinately glad that Harry’s holding them in place. Tears well up in clouded eyes at the oversensitivity as Harry continues to furiously pound into him, and he must be toeing the edge because his rhythm is becoming increasingly rough and erratic.

“ _Louis_ ,” He whines and his voice cracks on the second syllable and his hips stutter and he comes. Harry’s face, then, is something of a religious experience and Louis thinks he wants that for the rest of his life.

He’s absolutely breathtaking; he throws his head back and there’s a furrow in his brow and his mouth falls slack. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his dainty eyelashes burn rich ebony against his cheeks and his skin shines with a radiant mixture of sweat and Louis’ come. It paints streaks across pearly skin, trickling over cheekbones and into his open mouth and down his neck and collarbones and the contours of his abdomen and that’s just – _fuck_. And he’s moaning like he’s being paid to do it  and Louis thinks he’s about two seconds from rock hard once again when Harry shudders one final time and crumbles on top of him.

Their chests expand and contract in tandem and it’s like emerging from the bottom of the ocean after diving sans air tanks.  

“Can I-?” Louis pokes his tongue from between his lips as an unspoken implication.

“Mmm, please.”

Louis licks every last drop of come from Harry’s face and throat, relishing in the languid drag of his tongue across Harry’s warm, soft skin, the _taste_ of himself on that same warm, soft skin. Harry closes his eyes and hums contentedly, a sleepy, sated purr. He kisses Louis gently, sweetly, and he almost doesn’t wince when Harry pulls out. He rolls off Louis’ slick body and ties the condom with a practiced flick of his wrist, tossing it somewhere into the thicket of trees. Louis has a vague hope that some poor animal doesn’t try to ingest it.

There’s a still for a moment as they lay like parallel lines, arms not quite touching, prickly grass at their backs, and Louis wonders what happens now. He feels like he can’t just get up and walk away from Harry, like it’s not physically possible, like Louis’ been a rogue asteroid and Harry’s Jupiter, the force of his gravity pulling him into orbit. He can’t leave, so he won’t leave. He curls his aching body up against Harry’s, nuzzling at his chest and there are still stripes of sticky come ribboning up and down his torso so he laps it up, smiling a pleased sort of smile.

“You certainly are a cuddly one, aren’t you?” Harry chuckles lightly and sweeps Louis’ damp fringe away from his forehead. It’s such an agonizingly sweet gesture that Louis worries his heart might rupture or worse, shrivel up and die. It could go either way.

“Problem?” The word is sufficiently muffled by his mouth at the crease of Harry’s neck and shoulder, sucking lightly at the skin there. His body fits perfectly under the crook of Harry’s arm and he feels tendrils of sleep inching along the outskirts of his brain. It’s a welcome intruder.

“Not at all,” Harry rests his head on Louis’. “In fact, I think I might have to keep you.”

“Might?”

“If you’re lucky,” he presses a kiss into sweaty hair.

Louis grins and thinks about how absolutely absurd it is that he’s cuddling stark naked in the middle of the goddamn forest after having been fucked within an inch of his life by a complete stranger. But actually, it doesn’t feel all that absurd; it’s easy and comfortable and just _right_. Everything is right - even the stars are far-off again, glowing white-blue like they should be– and Louis’ not a psychic but he imagines it’ll last.

Harry seems like the forever sort of stranger.

 

 

 


End file.
